


Wonderful Christmastime

by 221Btls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Declarations Of Love, M/M, Magical Realism, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 00:16:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13135167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: After a nasty fight with John, Sherlock thinks John, and everyone else, would be better off if he’d never been born. But the Christmas Fairy, in the form of Mike Stamford, takes Sherlock on a journey to show him how very wrong he is.





	Wonderful Christmastime

Sherlock shivered violently, snugging his blankets tighter about him, but they didn’t stave off the soul-chilling cold; damp from his fevered sweat, his bedding managed only to make him shake all that much harder. Gathering a tissue from the offensive pile of sullied ones beside him on the bed, he swiped the snot dripping freely from his nose and, wadding the tissue, feebly nudged it back to where it came from. And with a strength he didn’t know it had, his body curled, pumping off a round of sneezes that left him limp with exhaustion.

Moaning softly into his pillow, Sherlock tried to recall the last time he’d been this miserable. The time the hospital pumped his stomach? Mmm, no. The time the stray bullet nicked his lung? Mmm, no, not then, either. To be fair, he’d fallen almost immediately unconscious, but he could imagine the pain would have been horrendous.

No, the sole time he’d come close to feeling this miserable was early that morning. Standing at the window watching John storm off, boots leaving deep wells in the freshly fallen snow.

_Soon he’ll be in Costa Rica. Sitting on the beach sipping nauseatingly sugary drinks decorated with those ridiculous little umbrellas. Slathering sunscreen on Sarah's sun-warmed skin._

Another series of sneezes assaulted Sherlock, and every muscle ached, working together with malicious glee to render him limp in his misery. He shuddered again, his teeth chattering uncontrollably.

 _I’ll text John._ _He’ll know what to do._

Fumbling for his phone, Sherlock hauled it to his face, the light of it piercing painful holes in his retinas.

**_John. Deathly ill. No paracetamol in flat. Need recommendation. Text me when you land. SH_ **

Though the exertion cost him dearly, Sherlock hovered his thumb indecisively over the Send button. It wasn’t as if he and John had parted on amiable terms.

“Let me put the goddamn Christmas tree up, Sherlock,” John had grumbled the night before. “I’ll decorate it. Wouldn’t want you to do any actual manual labor.”

“I don’t know why it should be any concern of yours,” Sherlock had bit out, glaring at John. “You’ll not be here, and it’s not as if Christmas holds any appeal to me. Insipid holiday, every one chirping ‘Merry Christmas,’ ‘Happy New Year.’ Pfft. Highest rates of domestic abuse and suicide.”

John snorted. “You should enjoy it, then. All the mayhem’ll give you something useful to do. But if you’re too stubborn to go to your parents’ for the day, might at least have a bit of cheer around here.”

“I’ll leave the frivolity to you. Isn’t that why you’re going on holiday? To have _fun?_ ” And then, in a spectacularly precise imitation of John, Sherlock, too, had snorted. Upon reflection, Sherlock couldn’t say it had been his finest moment.

They had sniped at each other for another long, very long, five minutes until John had huffed a final “Christ, you’re an idiot. You deserve to spend Christmas alone,” and had dragged the tree—now woebegone from having been tussled between the flatmates—out of the flat. When John returned, he charged up the stairs to pack. How it could have taken John the rest of the evening until the next morning to pack a carry on, Sherlock hadn’t a clue. All he knew was that instead of feeling triumphant at getting his way, fighting with John had left him with a niggling pain in the pit of his stomach.

Sherlock had approached John early in the morning, attempting to smooth things over. Never quite sure at how to go about these things, Sherlock nipped at his bottom lip, trolling his memory for how he’d seen others express regret. “John, I’m not good with this type of thing, but I—”

“Save it for someone who gives a shite.”

Wounded, Sherlock stood back, watching mutely as John jerked his jacket on and grabbed the handle of his carry on, wheeling it to the door. His back stiff as he stood at the threshold, John paused long enough to throw a “Merry Christmas” over his shoulder before hurrying down the steps.

“Merry Christmas,” Sherlock had murmured at John’s back, a perplexing sense of desolation enveloping him. _John will be back to Baker Street. Won’t he?_

Dragging himself back to the present, Sherlock stared blurrily at the text: **_John. Deathly ill. No paracetamol in flat. Need recommendation. Text me when you land. SH_**

_It’s not as if John would care that I’m sick. I could die, and his irritation would be that he’d have to arrange for someone to pick up my corpse. Well, perhaps the stench of my decomposing body would irritate him, but he should be used to the smell of decaying body parts by now._

Sherlock rolled to his side, a soft moan leaving him due to the agony of it.

_All I am is a thorn in his and everyone else’s side. Just as well if I were never born; they’d be better off without me._

Heaving himself upright, Sherlock put the phone on the table—text unsent—and drooped back onto the bed.

For what seemed days, he drifted in and out of sleep, dreams and waking thoughts so intertwined that he didn’t know which was which. But one thing he did know, they all centered around one common theme: undeniably, the world would be better off without him.

“You’re wrong, you know.”

Sherlock roused with a start. _John. John’s home. Thank God._

A mirthful chuckle bounced through the room.

_Most definitely not John._

Sherlock slowly drew the covers from his face. _I must be dreaming._

But what he saw looked all too real. Fantastical, but real. Mike Stamford stood at the end of his bed. Beaming at Sherlock as if he’d been invited to the queen’s tea. Draped in a billowing white nightdress, night cap—with pompom—hanging to his shoulder, and a Victorian candlestick—candle lit, Stamford looked to have escaped from one of those cloyingly sentimental holiday movies John insisted Sherlock watch with him.

"Surprised to see me, eh? I’m your Christmas Fairy, come to show you that you’re wrong about people being better off without you.”

Sherlock flopped over in a huff, his back to Stamford. “Go away. I want to rest in peace.” But as Sherlock flopped, he noticed that he did so with great ease. His muscles no longer ached, and his skin brushed against warm, dry bedding, not the soggy sheets he’d been subject to. The dull, throbbing ache in his head? Gone.

_My fever broke. But then, why am I delirious? Which obviously, I am, else why would I conjure up Mike Stamford, in my bedroom, as a…as a Christmas Fairy?_

And as Sherlock pondered this most puzzling of enigmas, Stamford said, “Don’t you want to know?”

“Know what?” Sherlock asked before he had the good sense not to, mentally kicking himself for being so easily entrapped.

“Why people wouldn’t be better off if you had never been born.”

_Oh. Boring._

“Given that, with John’s assistance, I eliminate from London’s streets an average of seven criminals in any given month, the answer should be plain even to you,” Sherlock said dryly.

“I’m not talking about London, Sherlock. I’m talking about the people who’re around you every day; they’re the ones who truly need you.”

“I really have no time for this. Can’t you see I’m ill?” This no longer seemed strictly true, but it was none of Stam— the ghost’s concern. Sherlock flapped a hand in the direction of the door. “If you would be so kind as to show yourself out. Run along.”

“Well, if you don’t want to see…”

 _The ghost continues to natter on. Insufferable. Yet…_ Sherlock propped himself against the headboard. “What do you mean, ‘see’?”

“I can take you to see them—Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft. Show you how different their lives would be had you never been born.”

“John?” His best friend’s name caught in his throat. Why had they had such a petty argument? It wasn’t like them to be so churlish with each other, especially over… _Come to think of it, why **had** we been fighting? _ Sherlock drew a blank.

At the mention of John, Stamford’s smile faltered. “I, well, let me take you to see the others first, and then you can decide for yourself if you want to see John.”

“What’s wrong with John?” Sherlock’s heart bucked, and he scolded himself for letting himself get sucked into this vortex of absurdity, but he would worry about logic when he found out what Stamford was keeping from him. “Tell me, Stamford. I demand to know about John!”

And though Stamford winced under the assault, he remained steadfast. And silent. The crease that formed on his forehead plowing deeper.

_I must be more circumspect, or I won’t get the information I want._

His volume turned down considerably, Sherlock said smoothly, “Since I appear to be trapped with you inside some type of hallucinatory bubble, it seems I have no choice but to join you, but I’d like to be back home as to soon as possible. If it wouldn’t be a bother.” For good measure, Sherlock clasped his hands on his lap and added a smile that he hoped looked at least vaguely convincing.

“All right, then,” Stamford said, the cloud evaporating from his face. “Who do you want to start with?”

_John, you idiot! No, no, no. I can’t say that. He’ll get his nightdress in a twist, and then I’ll never get what I want._

Sherlock bounded from bed, his limbs as strong as if he’d never been ill. _Remarkable and yet so odd. All traces of my fever are gone, and I’m still afflicted with hallucinations._ “Mrs. Hudson, she’s closest.”

“Nope.” Stamford shook his head, far too pleased with himself as he corrected Sherlock. “She hasn’t been to England in years, ever since she married that bloke from Florida.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She returned to London after her husband was executed; I saw to it he was. Ran into her in the hallway two days ago, said she was staying in for the holidays.”

“But that’s the thing, Sherlock; her husband wasn’t executed. Didn’t go to jail at all. If you were never born, you couldn’t have investigated his case.”

“Where is she?”

“Fort Lauderdale,” Stamford said. And without looking to see if Sherlock followed, he left the bedroom at a determined, yet unhurried, gait.

“But I need to change. Put on some shoes—”

“You won’t need them where we’re going.”

 _Won’t need them where we’re going?_ This was all far more confounding than Sherlock deemed comfortable. He worked with facts and logic, not…Christmas Fairies and physiologic improbabilities.

Nonetheless, Sherlock hurried after Stamford, resolved that the sooner the nightmare was over, the sooner he’d get back to bed. Where he belonged.

Sherlock caught up with Stamford as he opened the door onto Baker Street. A powerful gust of wind burst inside, blasting a blizzard of snow into the hall. Outside, heavy snowflakes packed the air, and a foot of snow sat on the ground.

“Shut the door!” Sherlock shouted over the wind. It would be impossible to go anywhere right then. Or anytime soon.

Stamford’s plump cheeks, a rosy pink, smiled beneath his glasses. “No worries.”

With no warning, a black cab appeared on the curb in front of them. Without a fleck of snow on it, it sat, engine running. And it hadn’t rolled up; it had _materialized._ Out of nowhere. Without a driver in sight.

Captivated, Sherlock followed Stamford to the cab—his bare feet stepping through piled snow, his dressing gown buffeted by a frigid gale—and yet he had no sense of being cold.

As he sat beside Stamford in the passenger compartment, protected from the abominable weather, he looked outside and said, “This will never get us to the airport. I doubt a tank—"

The cab began to spin, so fiercely that it stole the rest of his words. Sherlock threw out his hands, bracing himself against the violent motion, but it was the centrifugal force that held him in his seat. He peered out the window at nothing but blackness. And from outside the cab, Sherlock heard a high-pitched screech that grew louder and louder and, a moment before it became unbearable, the cab hit something beneath them and stopped moving.

Sunshine streamed through the window, and Stamford opened the door and got out. “Well, we’re here,” he said, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world travel from London to…wherever they were, in minutes if not seconds.

His legs shaky as he left the cab, Sherlock hooded his eyes with his hand, the bright, hot sun jolting after the near-blizzard conditions in London. He peered up, momentarily mesmerized by the swaying palm fronds, the air perfumed by a fragrant array of flowering tropical plants.

 _Florida. Or is it Costa Rica?_ Sherlock suppressed an anticipatory smile; he wouldn’t want to be too obvious. _Has Stamford brought me to see John, after all?_

“Mrs. Hudson should be over there.”

 _Florida, then._ And as if to mirror Sherlock’s mood, high in the sky, a cloud drifted, hiding the sun.

Stamford pointed across a park to a two-story stucco mansion painted a revolting shade of tangerine, the requisite holiday fairy lights hanging from its eaves. The other homes surrounding the lushly green park looked to have been dispensed from a candy machine—peppermint pink, lemon yellow, lime green—but as nausea-inducing as the colors might be, the houses looked clean and well-maintained. And safe. But Sherlock was not so naïve as to think that because they looked safe meant that they were. Some of the most heinous individuals on Earth housed them themselves in finery. As John would so succinctly put it, lipstick on a pig.

“Frank continues in the drug business, I see,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, no, not all. Frank died two years ago.”

“What? Then what was your purpose in bringing me here? If Mrs. Hudson is safe from him without my assistance, that means I wasn’t necessary. Meaning, you brought me here on pretense.” Sherlock’s flush of victory from knowing that he had been correct about not being needed, collapsed with the realization that deep inside there had bloomed an tiny hope that, yes, he _had_ been necessary.

“You have it wrong, Sherlock. Well, she is safe from him, but she’s not doing well. She wasn’t able to recover any money from him, as you did for her before having him arrested. After Frank was murdered, authorities confiscated the money, the house. Everything. She was left with nothing.”

“Surely she isn’t destitute if she lives in one of those homes. They must be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

Stamford headed toward the nearest large cluster of lush foliage. With Sherlock in tow, when Stamford reached the far side of it, he stopped, motioning toward a clutch of makeshift tents.

“When Frank died, Mrs. Hudson went to work as a housekeeper. But her hip gave out, so she had to quit her job. With no money and nowhere to go, she wound up here.”

_What am I supposed to see? There’s no one here but some people sleeping rough…_

Much older and more fragile without make-up or tinted hair, her fingernails dirty and ragged, amidst the clutter, Sherlock recognized his landlady, and he blinked back the sting of moisture in his eyes.

Not wanting to frighten her, Sherlock stayed several feet away and crouched low. “Mrs. Hudson, it’s Sherlock. I’m here.” He spoke gently, but she didn’t show any sign that she knew who he was. Or that she had seen him at all.

“She can’t hear you,” Stamford said. “She can’t see you either. You don’t exist.”

“So you keep saying. Yet, you see and hear me well enough,” Sherlock said sharply.

Sherlock lowered himself to his knees, scooting close to the tent, but Mrs. Hudson still gave no indication she was aware of his presence. Sherlock reached out to where she lay on a pile of fetid blankets, her tattered clothing draped over a frame at least thirty pounds lighter than when Sherlock had last seen her. He put his hand on her arm, but though he pressed at her flesh, he felt nothing. He saw no imprint on her skin. He pressed harder. To the same effect. _My God, could what Stamford said be true? I don’t exist?_

Sherlock drew back, the prick of sadness deepening. For himself. For Mrs. Hudson.

He couldn’t say he had ever given Mrs. Hudson a great deal of thought. She was simply _there._ Sometimes annoying and difficult to take, but always steadfast. And somehow, very necessary. She didn’t deserve such an appalling existence.

“We have to do something for her, Stamford. Get her back to Baker Street. Get her some food.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. You’re here to learn to appreciate your value to others. You can’t help her if you were never born.”

“We could get her to a shelter. Anything would be better than—” Sherlock held out a distraught hand. “–this.”

Stamford pressed his mouth closed and shook his head, an expression so filled with regret that even Sherlock understood what it meant.

“Get me out of here, then; I can’t take this. I can’t take not being able to help her. I want to wake up. Now.”

“Don’t you want to know about Mycroft?”

"That tired tactic’s not going to work on me again.” Sherlock’s laugh rang hollow. “This is merely a dream. No, a nightmare, and I want it over. My subconscious, my rules.”

“You can choose someone else if you like. Greg Lestrade? Molly Hooper. We have to continue, Sherlock. I’ve been instructed—”

“By whom? Who instructed you?” Sherlock loomed over Stamford. “There’s no one telling you what to do. This is a delusion. A figment of my imagination.”

“Look at it as an experiment,” Stamford appealed to Sherlock. “Think of it as an experiment gone wrong, and you stumble—”

“I do NOT stumble.”

“Okay, okay,” Stamford said. “You make an unexpected discovery. Can you look at from that point of view? Please?” Stamford wiped his brow, adding under his breath, “I never thought this would be so difficult. Those Fairy wings better be worth it.”

"What?”

“Um, nothing.”

“If you insist, I choose Mycroft,” Sherlock huffed, knowing the only way to get to John was to humor Stamford. _Mycroft should be easy enough to take. I can’t fathom a single reason he’d need me; therefore, his life will have been unaffected. He’ll be his usual arrogant, aggravating self. I’ll take a look. And then I’ll be on my way. On my way to John._

To Sherlock’s immense relief, the black cab, driverless as before, rolled near. Sherlock slumped into the passenger seat, his sense of impotence from not being able to help Mrs. Hudson almost unbearable, and he closed his eyes, determined to put the episode aside. Deep in his thoughts, Sherlock paid no notice to the cab’s peculiar means of travel, unaware that it was in motion until it plopped onto a snow-laden path near a cottage. The cottage Sherlock had lived in as a child.

_Of all places, why are we here? Why not at Mycroft’s house?_

A once-bucolic cottage, the old home stood in shambles. Cracks in the stonework bulging with moist, green moss. Its yard and gardens a tangled jungle. Swatches of missing thatching exposing timber to the elements.

“No one has lived here for years, which should be abundantly evident to anyone who could see it, including you. Two people down, one to go; take me to John.” Sherlock turned from Stamford, shielding himself from view. Not wanting even a figment of his imagination to witness his melancholy at seeing his childhood home in near ruins. Panning  the property, Sherlock could hear the excited shrieks of children playing, the woof of a frisky four-footed friend. Could smell the scent of freshly baked cookies wafting from the kitchen window. Could see his parents toiling in the vegetable garden, every so often looking at each other and smiling, their love never far from the surface.

Sherlock fumbled in the pocket of his dressing gown for his phone. He needed to connect with someone. Someone real. John. He needed to text John. Surely John couldn’t still be angry with him. His search grew more urgent as he plunged deeper into his pocket, pulling at it until it was inside out. Nothing. His pocket was completely empty. _How could I have left without my phone?!_

"You wouldn’t be able to text him anyway,” Stamford said.

"Text who?” _He’s been reading my mind the whole time?_

“John wouldn’t be able to get your call; he, uh, doesn’t have a signal.” A fleeting grimace passed over Stamford’s face, replaced with a too-bright smile.

_Why is he so discomfited? What isn’t he telling me? With John in Costa Rica, it didn't take a genius to deduce he might not have cell service. But there’s something else Stamford isn’t telling me. Something he knows that would be displeasing to me._

With the mystery of Stamford’s secret simmering in the back of his mind, Sherlock joined him at the cottage. Rubbing a circle of grime from a window pane, Stamford said, “Here. You can see Mycroft.”

Through the window, Sherlock viewed a man so colossal his body claimed the entirety of the loveseat he sat on. His bulging thighs dwarfed the laptop sitting on top of them. His bloated face, etched with too many hours and years of unhappiness, bore the pastiness of someone who rarely let the sun grace him.

“That’s not Mycroft.” Sherlock tightened the folds of his dressing gown against his body, but they couldn’t stave off the chill that had nothing to do with being cold. “He’s had his struggles, but he would never allow himself to become so rotund. This man must weigh six hundred pounds.”

He so wanted to believe the man was not Mycroft. But the physical attributes, despite being all but camouflaged beneath a doughy exterior, were so like Mycroft’s. The unconscious mannerisms, as telling as a DNA match, were familiar from a lifetime of observation. Sadly, undoubtedly, the man on the sofa was his brother. Repulsed, Sherlock knew it was not because of the man himself but because what he saw was Mycroft’s worst nightmare. And whatever differences Sherlock and his brother have, he would never wish unhappiness on Mycroft.

Sherlock noted no tire tracks in the drive leading to the house. Snow, blown into drifts at both entrances, looked to have been there for days, if not weeks, a conclusion supported by the stack of newspapers overflowing the paper box. This was the home of someone who had no need, no desire, to leave.

“Mycroft works from home?” Sherlock asked, uncomprehending of how the brother he knew, the one who thrived on being at the epicenter of power, could consider a life that did not revolve around bustling London. “The government allows this?”

Stamford set the candlestick on the window’s wide sill. Remarkably, the candle, burning the entire time, had yet to drip. “Oh. Mycroft works for a call center out of Delhi, not the British government. Never did. He never had the ambition. It was you who spurred him on.”

“Me?” Sherlock grunted. “Don’t be absurd. I had nothing to do with it. He’s been ruthlessly ambitious for as long as I can remember. It’s all about winning, all about being _better._ ”

“You don’t understand, do you, Sherlock,” Stamford said. “If you had never been born, he wouldn’t have had you here to challenge his intellect. It was you who made him want to be better. Yes, he has a competitive edge, but it’s about his wanting to set an example for you. He’s always felt a certain responsibility in helping raise his little brother to be a good man. It’s a responsibility that’s always been there, even when you grew to an adult.”

Sherlock pressed his nose against the window, anguished by what he saw. Unable to look away. Logic told him the sight before him was a delusion, yet his heart was not convinced. His gaze drifted to the cluster of pictures on the wall. Pictures from his childhood displaying a family of three, not four.

“My parents?” Loath to ask—the weight of any more emotion might be unbearable—Sherlock took the risk. He anxiously studied Stamford’s face for any clue of their fate.

“They’re well,” Stamford said, clearly relieved to finally give Sherlock good news. “They live in the new house, but they come out here a once a week to visit Mycroft. In fact, with it being Christmas, they should be coming sometime today.”

Sherlock turned, as if he might see his parents arriving. Needing to see for himself that his “loss” hadn’t negatively impacted them. But the snowy lane stretched on for what may have been miles, empty of any sign of life. He sagged, weary from this delusion that seemed would never end.

“I’ve seen enough. Take me to John.” Sherlock heard the thinness in his own voice, perilously close to pleading. But he was beyond caring. “Please.”

 ~~~~At the mention of John, Stamford flinched. But he caught himself and quickly righted his expression into the perkiness he’d worn much of their journey.

“Stop that! I refuse to consider that John is worse off without me.” Sherlock said the words forcefully, as if by doing so his will would be carried out.

“I advise against it, Sherlock…”

“That is not a no. And even if it were, this is _my_ delusion, and I say we go.” Sherlock grabbed the cab door and flung it open with such force that when it opened as far as it could, it bounced back, slamming shut. He opened it again and pointed at the interior. “In. Now,” he said fiercely. Much to Sherlock’s relief, because he had little spirit left with which to fight, Stamford complied without argument.

As the black cab whisked them through the ether, Sherlock braced himself for what he might see at their next destination. The likelihood that his presence had improved John’s life in any meaningful way was slim, but it would be prudent to prepare himself for the worst.

 _But what would that be, “the worst”? And would it be the worst for John? Or for me? Ahh, that could be why Stamford doesn’t want me to see John; it’s something that could hurt me. _A mental picture of John, Sarah, and their two-point-three children flashed through Sherlock’s head. John, flush with pride that—

Oomph. The vehicle tires providing little cushion, the black cab landed with a stiff thump. They had arrived.

Sherlock tightly gripped the door handle, apprehensive of what he was about to see. Snow fell in heavy sheets that at any other time might be entrancing, but today it hindered Sherlock’s line of sight. Obscured the white chapel that sat yards away. When he did see it, he closed his eyes, taking a moment to steady himself.

_So, I’m right. Well, half right. John’s not married; he’s getting married. And I’m to be forced to watch._

Sherlock slowly got out of the cab and headed toward the chapel, thinking it odd that there were no signs of other guests. Perhaps Stamford’s timing was off, and they were early.

“Not the chapel, Sherlock,” Stamford said quietly.

 _Thank God._ _I don’t think I could survive the thought of John leaving me to marry, not right now. Not after what I’ve experienced today._

Sherlock turned, and beyond Stamford, through the snowfall that had suddenly waned to a light flurry, Sherlock saw them. And he knew. He knew why Stamford had brought him to this place.

Row upon seemingly endless row of identical white headstones perched above the blanket of snow, making a claim to the bodies that lay beneath. Stately, serene. A picturesque setting in which to lay to rest the men and women who had served their country.

_No._

_NO,_ Sherlock wanted to scream. But he stood numb, willfully postponing the full impact of where he was. Or why he was there.

Mourners dotted the cemetery, placing holiday wreaths and poinsettias at headstones. Bowing heads and openly weeping. Draping a string of fairy lights on a marker. Talking in hushed conversations. Laughing.

Finally, Sherlock said in little more than a whisper, “Take me to John,” hoping against hope that he was wrong. That Stamford would take him to the chapel and not to a grave; it would be reasonable to think that John would marry in uniform, in a military chapel. Sherlock forced aside the fact that he had seen no vehicles outside the chapel. No lights lit inside.

Steering Sherlock from the chapel, Stamford led him to a row of headstones. Past that row and another. And another. Stamford stopped at a headstone indistinguishable from any other. Indistinguishable except for the engraved words _Captain John H. Watson_. Sherlock’s eyes blurred, but no tears fell, not until he read the rest of the engraving. For, following John’s birth date was a date that Sherlock would never be able to mistake: the day after they met.

Sherlock tried to breathe.

_No._

“No.” The heavy air swallowed Sherlock’s grief; the deep snow muffled his despair. He couldn’t look at Stamford, couldn’t bear to see the pity that was sure to be in his eyes. “It can’t be true. He was with me that night. He shot the cabbie.”

Sounding on the verge of tears himself, Stamford said, “He committed suicide that night. If you were never born, you couldn't have been there to save him.”

“But I didn’t save him. I’ve never done anything for him but offer to share a flat. It was the danger he craved.” _I’ve done nothing for him. Nothing._

“He could have found danger anywhere, Sherlock. It was you. Your existence was all he needed to give him the will to go on. To make his life worth living.”

Sherlock fell to his knees. Laid a hand over the name on the headstone. Wind whistled through the nearby pines. Desolate. Solitary. Compounding to the sense that life would never be the same. He sagged further, his arms crossing over his midsection to hold himself in, and he rested his head against the hard stone. _John._

A warm hand gripped his shoulder. “Sherlock.”

 _That’s not Stamford’s voice. It’s—it’s John's._ Sherlock collapsed further into himself, desperate to shield himself from the incomprehensible madness he’d found himself in.

"Sherlock, stop it. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

The hand on Sherlock’s shoulder squeezed, a gesture of reassurance. It didn’t reassure. This hallucinogenic journey had twisted him. Its long, dark tunnel pushing his psyche to what might be its breaking point.

“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing,” Sherlock growled, “but I want no part of it. Go back to wherever you came from.”

“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? Look, I know I went overboard, but—

Sherlock sprang upright on his knees, rounding on John. “Overboard?! If you think killing yourself is—”

He looked around, stopping short. He no longer knelt in the cemetery; he knelt on his own bed with the pile of used tissues. In his own room. No sign of Stamford. No black cab.

Sherlock’s hand trembled as he held it out. And with his thumb, he gently brushed the cuff of John’s jacket, felt the weave of the fabric, the lingering chill from having been out in the harsh weather. The skin he touched underneath the jacket was warm. The pulse he pressed his finger to was strong and rhythmic.

“John. It’s you,” Sherlock breathed.

“Of course, it is,” John said, frowning. “Who else would I be?”

“But what day is it? I couldn’t have slept for ten days.” Sherlock scrambled for his phone, December 25. John left a matter of hours ago. Not enough time to fly to Costa Rica, let alone make a return flight.

“No. I, uh, I didn’t go.”

“Why are you turning pink? Are you ill?” Sherlock scrutinized John’s face, an excuse, really, to fully savor the fact that not only did John not die, but he was home. _Home_. _What a lovely word._

John cleared his throat and glanced away. And turned a shade pinker.

“I, uh, this isn’t an easy thing for me to say, Sherlock.” John looked across the room. “Do you mind if I, um, sit down.”

“Be my guest,” Sherlock said, hoping that by the time John brought the chair over, he could get the grin on his face— the one that likely made him appear somewhat deranged—under control.  _He's home!_

John dragged the chair next to Sherlock’s bed, but he didn’t sit down. He walked around the chair slowly, finger to lips. His mouth moving without sound, as if trying to choose the right words.

Sherlock felt a spark of panic. _Shut up!_ he told it. But in Sherlock’s experience, difficult situations took thought. Easy words, happy words, generally fell out of people. Ergo, John was not happy.

“John. Look, about our argument. I deeply regret—”

“You know, Sherlock,” John said, as if he hadn’t heard. Pacing on the other side of the chair. Focusing on the floor. “I couldn’t understand why I was so upset with you before I left. You hadn’t done anything. Well, nothing unusual for you.” John looked up briefly at Sherlock, a knowing twinkle in his eye.

_A twinkle. A twinkle’s good. Wait, it is, isn’t it?_

“It bugged me all morning, wondering why I was such a prick. I—”

“You weren’t the only—”

“Let me finish, okay?”

_Anything. Anything for you, John. See, not talking. Just don’t be dead. Lord, is this what being a puppy feels like?_

“So, we got to Heathrow, and of course, all the flights were canceled because of the snow.”

“Ahhh, that’s why you came—”

John held up a hand.

“Sorry.” _I’ll be quiet. I promise._

_I’ve never noticed how very blue your eyes are. How long and soft your eyelashes._

“No, I didn’t come home because I couldn’t fly out. I came home because I realized the reason I was angry was that I didn’t want to be away from you. Not on Christmas, and not on any other day, either, Sherlock. As it turns out, I’m in love with you.”

_Who? Me?_

“Yeah, you. God help me. And when I saw your text I thought…”

Finally staying put in one place, John dug his hands into his jacket pockets, pushing until they were stretched to their limits. And, his gaze on Sherlock intent, he said, “And when I saw your text, I thought, maybe…well, maybe you feel the same way.”

He plopped into the chair he’d set by Sherlock’s bed and leaned heavily on his knees. “Fuck me. Now I can breathe again. I don’t think I breathed all day.”

~~~~_Text? What text? I didn’t send it. And anyway, there was nothing I wrote that could remotely be construed as a confession of love._

Sherlock opened his phone to the last text he’d sent John.

“Shite, I got it wrong. Didn’t I?” John looked at the phone. He no doubt saw the confusion on Sherlock’s face. “You’re on a case. That’s what it’s about. Christ, I’m an idiot.”

John stood and walked out of the room, walking that purposeful stride that Sherlock had come to learn meant that John was working hard to look strong. To be strong.

 _What did I do?!_ Sherlock read the last text he’d sent to John: **I need you. SH** Nothing about paracetamol, nothing about being ill. _How did that get there?_ His mind racing, he thought back to what Stamford kept telling him, that the people in his life needed him. That their lives were better because of who he was and what he’d done for them.

_And as nice of a sentiment as that is, when all is said and done, the truth is that I need them. More than they need me._

_John, most of all. Why have I never seen it?_ _I need him._

“John!”

Sherlock tossed his phone onto the bed and ran. He didn’t have to run far; John had gotten only as far as the kitchen sink, letting it prop him up as he braced his palms against it.

He had to speak to John’s back, which was fine, because it was so new that he’d need practice to say it to John’s face. But with barely enough air to breathe, Sherlock said, “I do need you, John. Not for a case, and not because you fetch the milk and put up with heads in the fridge. I need you because you make my life better. You make _me_ better. I—”

John turned and leaned back against the sink. Searching Sherlock’s face.

And Sherlock decided maybe it didn’t take practice. Maybe it was more important to get it out there than to leave it until it might be too late.

Reaching out he cradled John’s face with both hands, and finished. “I love you, too. Yeah, you,” he couldn’t help adding, getting a playful nudge in his ribs for it. 

He folded John into his arms, pulling him close. Breathing in his intoxicating scent. Feeling the softness of his hair against his face. Cherishing being wrapped in John’s arms with such a firm hold that Sherlock thought John might never let him go. _Which would be just fine with me, by the way._

Hearing a faint noise from the far end of the counter, Sherlock looked over to see a toy-sized black cab that he’d never seen before. Its headlights turned on and off, first one and then the other, as if the car winked. 

Sherlock smiled and murmured, “Thank you, Stamford.”

“What was that?” John asked, nuzzling Sherlock’s neck.

“I’ll tell you about it someday.” And Sherlock pulled away from John, just enough so that he could see his face. Only long enough that he could find his lips to whisper “Merry Christmas” against them. The last thing either one said for a very long time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Wonderful Christmastime" is a 1979 song by Paul McCartney.
> 
> When I described the family photo, I later realized I'd left out Eurus. Just as well. As far as I'm concerned she doesn't exist.


End file.
